The Mailer Review/Volume 5, 2011/Trust: Difference between revisions

Line 40:

Late the previous afternoon, a prankish Norman, with a simple “This is my old friend Bob—I’m sure you two will find plenty to talk about,” had introduced me to Harvard’s renowned Dr. Robert Lifton, then disappeared upstairs. For all I knew, the affable, shaggy-haired man in weathered overalls before me could have been an unhung horse thief from the next county. But, as with most of Norman’s little jokes, this one turned out well. Lifton {{pg|471|472}}

and I hit it off famously, even wound up exchanging letters, and the conversation at the table had positively crackled.

This next evening, then, Norman was in high spirits, that indefinite urgency of his outpouring as he splashed two fingers into each of the glasses.

It started quickly: Norman the ringmaster.

“So tell me . . . ” he intoned, smile billboarding his face, “''you’re'' a poet . . . ”

At this I was ready to cash in and go home, but as my drink was fresh, I

lingered, and struggled to look sufficiently rhythmic.

He continued: “Lately I’ve been reading more poetry.” The keen eyes narrowed, brows bristling like sea urchins. “Getting into it.” He pursed his lips in emphasis. “But I’m all over the place.”

Norman, I knew, prospered from a habit he passed on to me, among others—that of putting in a short period of quality reading before attempting to write, juicing yourself on someone’s excellence. Usually it was prose, Simenon or Roth.

Now he apparently felt a fresh hunger. Taking a sip, composing himself, Norman came to the point: what single journal might he depend upon to give him the best picture of what now constituted contemporary style? After all, he was a busy man!

Having by then collected a few hundred issues of the flagstaff publication, I recommended ''Poetry'' of Chicago, explaining its long history and generally formalist bent. Since Norman’s taste in poetry, as far as I could suss it, was fairly populist—the kind of thing that might have set fingers to popping back in the days of bongo fever, or later given semi-literate young radicals illusions of gravity at places like the ''Nuyorican Café''. I rather doubted that he’d pursue the matter, but he did.

First, I sent him a few issues, then by the next summer and in subsequent visits, I noticed more and more issues of ''Poetry'' about the place, well fin-{{pg|472|473}}

@@ Line 40: / Line 40: @@
 Late the previous afternoon, a prankish Norman, with a simple “This is my old friend Bob—I’m sure you two will find plenty to talk about,” had introduced me to Harvard’s renowned Dr. Robert Lifton, then disappeared upstairs. For all I knew, the affable, shaggy-haired man in weathered overalls before me could have been an unhung horse thief from the next county. But, as with most of Norman’s little jokes, this one turned out well. Lifton {{pg|471|472}}
+and I hit it off famously, even wound up exchanging letters, and the conversation at the table had positively crackled.
+This next evening, then, Norman was in high spirits, that indefinite urgency of his outpouring as he splashed two fingers into each of the glasses.
+It started quickly: Norman the ringmaster.
+“So tell me . . . ” he intoned, smile billboarding his face, “''you’re'' a poet . . . ”
+At this I was ready to cash in and go home, but as my drink was fresh, I
+lingered, and struggled to look sufficiently rhythmic.
+He continued: “Lately I’ve been reading more poetry.” The keen eyes narrowed, brows bristling like sea urchins. “Getting into it.” He pursed his lips in emphasis. “But I’m all over the place.”
+Norman, I knew, prospered from a habit he passed on to me, among others—that of putting in a short period of quality reading before attempting to write, juicing yourself on someone’s excellence. Usually it was prose, Simenon or Roth.
+Now he apparently felt a fresh hunger. Taking a sip, composing himself, Norman came to the point: what single journal might he depend upon to give him the best picture of what now constituted contemporary style? After all, he was a busy man!
+Having by then collected a few hundred issues of the flagstaff publication, I recommended ''Poetry'' of Chicago, explaining its long history and generally formalist bent. Since Norman’s taste in poetry, as far as I could suss it, was fairly populist—the kind of thing that might have set fingers to popping back in the days of bongo fever, or later given semi-literate young radicals illusions of gravity at places like the ''Nuyorican Café''. I rather doubted that he’d pursue the matter, but he did.
+First, I sent him a few issues, then by the next summer and in subsequent visits, I noticed more and more issues of ''Poetry'' about the place, well fin-{{pg|472|473}}